If you asked me what I want,
What words I keep locked
Away in this dark chasm
I would not tell you.

Not because I value these
Secrets which are held
In the deepest parts
Of this shattered soul.

No, I hide because I don’t know
How to share this in a
Way that would not cut
All who held it.

The only thing worse than
Desire is desire which
Has no place to go,
The kind which eats inward.

I carry the weight alone
For how could I share
What might crush you
Just as much as me.

What does this heart know of love,
besides the stories which poets preach.
What hope does this darkness have
of ever knowing the light brought by dawn.

It started with a smile, causing a spark to catch
in the wet kindle that turned to fuel. The fuel
then engulfed the pyre for all the dead
which have claim a home inside of me.

And as this conflagration grew, a strange
affection grew with it. As your smile became
more frequent a new connection started
to form, one all too familiar, yet slightly different.

Now this once controlled fire begun to
burn with an unfamiliar passion. For the first
time, I understood possession, with you
dancing in my head on replay.

With a heat so strong how could I not
want to extinguish the flames which lapped
against my hands? Though no matter
what was attempted, the fire burnt on.

I try to keep it hidden, the desire,
but it has become something more
than desire. It has become that which
this heart knows nothing about.

What happens to love not returned?

Does it die in the same way
the fish on the river bank dies?

Does it collapse under the
weight of all this air?

Perhaps it lives on, stuck
scornfully in an unwanted life.

Screaming, a banshee’s scream,
envious of the fates it preaches.

The curse of immortality seems
to be the fate of unreturned love.

To beat on against the rising sun.

By the curve in the river bed,
half way between the unknown
forest and the place you lay your head.
I will be waiting patiently for you.

The letters have all been stamped,
the signs have been given,
pleasant words have all been spoken.

The game is now afoot, and
our faintly beating hearts
have been put forth as wagers.

To lose would be to return to normality,
but to win is to gain the world,
or at the least a companion in it.

Though I warn this may hurt,
either to win or to lose,
there is no going back from here.

So come my dear, meet me
by the curve in the river bed,
throw down your dice,
and take a leap into the dark.

Just last night I prayed for
a conclusion to these midnight
fantasies which have haunted
me ever since the day you left.

Maybe it was for the simple
fear of wanting, but more
likely it is for the fear of
once again losing.

There is a weariness here
not seen by the naked eye
that is fueled by the hope
which midnight dreams bring.

Yet when my prayers were
not heard, I instead wrote
you a poem using simple
words meant only for explanation.

Perhaps that could have been
the answer to my late night prayers,
but it was never delivered,
I was never that brave.

Perhaps in another life,
where I learn how to speak
I would tell you the secrets
which you already know.

I would tell you about
a tip of double edge blade
and how it is a metaphor
for my silent heart.

And in this other life
you would forgive me
for never telling you about
how afraid I was to cut.

And I would forgive you
for falling in love with
another heart that did
not share my fear of blood.

Maybe then we can look
at each other for who we
really are and maybe, just
maybe that will be enough.

For if I were a better man,
I would not write this poem
I would not call up these
dormant words from their sleep.

And if I were a stronger man,
I would build you a strong house
out of big logs cut with my calloused hands.
Instead, all I have is a few weak words.

If I were anything other than this,
I would paint you with a metaphor
of a red moons against blackened sky.
Yet I write no metaphors.

And if a starving man refusing
to eat the food in front of him,
he is called mad, so call me mad
for never writing you your poem.

For if I were a better man, I would
have written that poem which reads:
I love you, I love you, I love you.
And that would have been my Mona Lisa.